


Along the Foreshore

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, MFMM Year of Quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 16:17:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15392604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: After the war, Jack took to pedalling his bike as far and fast as he could on the nights he wanted to escape the memories, and walking along the St. Kilda foreshore on the mornings he needed to remember. And then came Miss Fisher.





	Along the Foreshore

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo, I wrote this while super jetlagged after con. "I can edit it later," I assumed blithely. Not so much. But, you know, I finally found a place to use my favourite inconsequential headcanon, so I'm happy enough. 
> 
> Inspired, somehow, by the quote
>
>> _And lovers,_   
>  _are they not forever invading one another’s_   
>  _boundaries? - although they promised space,  
> _   
>  _hunting and homeland._

After the war, Jack took to pedalling his bike as far and fast as he could on the nights he wanted to escape the memories, and walking along the St. Kilda foreshore on the mornings he needed to remember. Rosie grew silently accustomed to the ever-growing pile of smooth pebbles and seashells he brought home from these excursions, moving them to his study when they were left in pockets or strewn around the house.

The foreshore was far enough from home that he did not see the war. He did not know which houses were tainted by its shadow, which houses had diggers screaming in the night or children without their fathers. But there were good things too--he’d courted Rosie there, along the waters and at the newly-opened Luna Park; he’d spent summers there with friends and family; the sound of the water lapping onto the shore, sometimes steady and smooth and sometimes tempestuous but always constant, meant he was never left in total silence--and even when the war had lessened its grip on Jack, the early morning visits continued. Instead of blood and mud and fear, he began to contemplate his work--cases, of course, but all the other considerations of running a station as well. More than once answers had come to him as he’d walked, the sea breeze filling his lungs with salty air and causing his coat to flutter around him.

And then came Miss Fisher.

He hadn’t even been surprised, really, that the self-proclaimed lady detective had taken up residence so close to his place of solace--she seemed the type of person who showed up everywhere, unless you actually wanted them to. And it was hardly as if the woman was likely to be awake that early in the morning. St. Kilda was big enough for both of them. 

In the end, it wasn’t the foreshore he should have been concerned about--she quickly began to turn up in his professional life like a bad penny, or at least he liked to tell himself so. The truth was he liked her, found her clever and challenging and kind in a way that was a deliberate choice in a dark world. So by the time he did see her on the foreshore--it was a peal of laughter drifting across the sand that alerted him, one morning when the sun was barely above the horizon, and she was diving into the water in what he very much doubted was a swimming costume--it was worth nothing more than a knowing small smile and shake of his head, and when he came across a constable doing his rounds a little further along he sent the man in another direction. It would be terribly inconvenient for Miss Fisher to be arrested while they were in the midst of an investigation, after all. 

He didn’t think she’d seen him, but it was not long after that there was a murder at Luna Park and she easily found him strolling along, ruminating over the elements at play. Gangs and a dead policeman and no easy answers drove his feet along the familiar walk, and she did not seem surprised by his presence. Coincidence, perhaps, but when it came to Phryne Fisher coincidence was hard to believe. She didn’t give him an indication either way, just pushed back at his perceived presumptions with her usual ardour, and nothing more was said, even after the case was resolved and he made good on his bet; her arm in his as they approached The Great Scenic Railway was so different than his morning sojourns that he barely connected the two. 

After the death of Gertie Haynes, he felt the need for those early morning walks more than ever; he worked on his garden instead, preparing it for winter and attending to larger matters he’d put off for years. The risk was too high to do otherwise, but there was a restlessness in his soul that wasn’t quite appeased by weeding and digging and finally moving that rose bush that never quite thrived under his thumb the way it had for his wife. When they found themselves back in step, tentative though it was, it was like coming home in more ways than one.

It was the middle of May when he saw here there again, this time walking arm-in-arm with some evening’s paramour, even if it was nearly 6am.

“Jack!” she exclaimed when they came closer, eyes lighting up. “Roy and I were heading home for breakfast, would you care to join us?”

He coughed, wondering exactly which circle of hell he’d fallen into (almost certainly lust, given the way Roy was clearly admiring Miss Fisher and her assets, not that he could bring himself to blame the man--she looked positively divine), and insisted that he did not want to intrude.

“Nonsense,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I had a thought about the Abbott case. It will only take a moment.”

And so he found himself walking beside the couple until they reached her home, where a third cup for tea was procured and extra toast was laid on the table with nary a raised eyebrow from Mr. Butler. The case was discussed, debated and weighed and debated some more until the evening’s paramour stood to make his excuses. Jack felt a small stab of guilt at interrupting their clearly intended assignation, and not a small amount of satisfaction that she had found talking with him more intriguing; either way, the man seemed to bear it philosophically, stating that it really was late and he had an appointment later in the morning, but perhaps he’d see Phryne again soon. 

“Of course,” Phryne said smoothly. “Thank you for walking me home.”

The man left, and Jack glanced at his watch. 

“I should go as well,” Jack said, draining the last of his tea and standing. “I’m due at the station soon, and I should speak with Mrs. Abbott again now that we’ve…”

“You’ll let me know what you learn?” she asked.

“I suspect you’ll learn it yourself before I have a chance,” he smiled, “but I’ll stop by this evening if you’d like.”

“I would,” she said, then gave a cheeky grin. “If I don’t have to suss it out myself, I can sleep until the afternoon. I’m beat, but don’t tell Roy.”

While not a frequent occasion, it wasn’t the last time his walks ended at Wardlow--even when Phryne herself was not available, Mr. Butler would supply him with a cup of tea and something to eat.

“I really wouldn’t want to trouble you,” Jack said the first morning. “I just thought I would bring Miss Fisher the files while I was nearby.”

“It’s no trouble, inspector,” said Mr. Butler, in a tone that made it very clear that arguing would not change his mind. And so Jack didn’t; he’d always been unduly influenced by his stomach.

When Phryne flew to London and Jack was incapable of following her as initially planned, his walks became more frequent. The foreshore was still a place of contemplation and memories, but now the contemplation was often turned towards the woman he loved--there was no use denying it--and the future he hoped to find, nebulous though it was. It was unlikely to be simple, nothing ever was with Phryne, but he wanted it with a strength that surprised even him. 

It was an early autumn morning and a heavy fog had rolled in from the sea when it happened; Jack was contemplating a murder--nothing complex, just a death after a pub brawl--when he saw a familiar shape sitting on the boardwalk, leaning back on her hands with her face tilted towards the sky. When he stopped she turned towards him, rising onto her feet.

Neither one said anything as she stepped closer, a hand reaching for his lapel.

“When?”

“Last night,” she said, tugging at his coat and swaying closer. “Very late. I haven’t slept, but I didn’t want to miss you.”

“You could have telephoned. There was no way to know I’d be along today.”

“I knew,” she said. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“Consider me surprised,” he said, voice catching; a smile blossomed across her face.

“Pleasantly?” she asked, voice coy but her eyes genuinely curious. 

He wanted to tease her. Had intended to tease her. But she was home and smiling and then her mouth was on his, insistent and firm as she angled his head closer to hers, as she grinned against his lips and chuckled, as she ran her hands along his neck with a surety that was staggering. He was breathless and speechless and so in love when she pulled away, her entire face alight; he kissed her again, because he could. Laughed, because he could. Pulled her solid, living body flush against his, because he could.

“This is lovely,” she murmured.

“But?”

She released her hold, taking a half-step back and moving to his side. Placing her hand in the crook of his elbow, she gestured down the foreshore. 

“Walk with me?” she requested. “I want to hear about everything I’ve missed.”

He looked at her; her hand had moved to insinuate itself around his bicep, her body was pressed against his, the scent of her perfume mingled with sea air and her beaming smile made his heart beat erratically. She was entwined with him, whatever came next.

“Jack?”

The foreshore had been his place of solitude for many years; in that moment, there was nothing he’d rather do than invite her to join him. 

He did. 


End file.
